Thursday, November 16, 2006

Gypsies, and Egyptians

Are there any strippers named Phyllis?

Sometimes I like to clean ruthlessly with bleach.

Once during the summer (I think it was my last day at work), the drain smelled horribly foul, and I called up to the office and said, 'Mahmoud, it smells like something crawled up and DIED in there!" and Mahmoud just said, "Pour some more Chlorox in it," on the other end of the phone. Haaa, Mahmoud. He was a great believer in Chlorox. He was such a skinny person, and he liked to feel like a king in his own small kingdom, which is why he had a lot of rich persian rugs in the secret quarters upstairs next to the office, where there was a bed and a shower and a kitchen and lots of secret luxuries.

Margery is sitting in half of the desk chair, and I am sitting in the other half, because we are companions. Although sometimes she is a silly duchess.

Sometimes all we need is a good restorative.

Yesterday in the Medieval Latin workshop, we continued the account of the life of St. Lutgard, and apparently in like 1220, Saint John the Evangelist appeared to her in the form of an eagle, and stuck its beak into her mouth, and filled her with torrents of glorious sweet communion with the Lord (it is true. Medieval people had a really fucked-up view of the world, and mystics did a lot of outrageous things that one would not normally think to do).

And I thought, if an eagle just appeared and tried to do that to me, I would be like, "Damn, eagle, why you all up in my GRILL?" and I might try to pluck out its feathers if it kept trying to stick its beak in my mouth, because how the hell would I know it was Saint John the Evangelist? And that is why I am not a medieval saint, nor would I like to be, because you have to participate in a lot of fucked-up experiences like that.

And sometimes, as happened to Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, Mother Mary herself appears to you and squirts her breast-milk into your mouth like a serene fountain, and there is even a painting of it. If that happened to me, I would be like, "Girl, you put that shit BACK! You keep that shit to yourself! I am a VEGAN!" It is true.

Back in the olden times, people used to kill ostriches and other birds, and savagely pluck out their plumes, and wear them for decoration.

Also, people thought that Irish people wore nothing but a large unwashed blanket (or Irish Mantle) wrapped around them, and no underwear beneath.

If I had lived in the medieval or early modern times, I probably would have been a tapstress, or worked in an alehouse, and tried to avoid giving birth to lots of children. Although, if I lived back then in England I guess I would also be considered a Moor (since I am part black), or people might mistake me for a Gypsy, or an Egyptian, because people in England back then had a fucked-up conception of the world, and thought that Gypsies and Egyptians were the same thing, and that India and Africa were in the same place. It is true.

Last night I was explaining to someone why it is great to be naked in the privacy of your own home. "We are all naked on the inside," I said, "and plus, we were BORN naked." And then I paused, and thought for a minute, and said, "Well, we were also born with no teeth," and then my entire argument was negated.

Also I learned that over 1 in 4 pregnant women in Kentucky smokes.

Some cats are really interested in looking at people's naked bodies (like Tasty), but others just do not really care (like Margery).

But the real Margery Kempe (in the medieval times) was really concerned about other people's naked bodies, because once she was on a journey back from Prussia, and she was travelling with these poor people, and in the night they all encamped outside a city and took off their clothes (because that was just what they did) and were naked, and Margery Kempe was really uncomfortable, and she kept her clothes on.

Also she had nightmare visions about all manner of priests and holy men and devils exposing their male genitals to her, and it troubled her deeply.

Next quarter I get to take a class in which we read The Book of Margery Kempe in Middle English and I shall force Margery the cat to read it along with me, because it is her origin. Perhaps I will force her to listen to portions of it in the mornings before I reward her with a savoury seafood feast.

My brother and sister used to play this game where their names were Clarence and Penelope, except my sister was Clarence, and my brother was Penelope, because they did not know the proper gendered nature of the names, and my mom thought it was hilarious, and she laughed for a long time.

Sometimes I speak to Charles FitzGerald (my computer) as if he is my slave, and I force him to come along with me.

And that is all.


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